Disassociative
by Katie Havok
Summary: [Sequel to "The Speed of Pain"] And in the six weeks since she'd been gone, he's received one letter. One. He tells himself every day that he is not upset by this. (He has never been very good at self-deception.)
1. Chapter 1

_He's dreaming. He knows he's dreaming because he's been here before, more times than he can count. This knowledge doesn't make the weight of the dream any lighter to bear, and it doesn't make waking any easier—because this is not a dream but a nightmare, one that's visited him time and time again, and he knows there's no escaping it until it releases him from its thrall._

In his cottage in Dorset, in his too-wide bed, Newt Scamander whines in the back of his throat as his eyes begin to flicker rapidly behind closed lids.

 _Tatters of smoke stream across his vision, some leaking through his faltering Bubble Head charm as he runs, runs, runs. There are muggle men in there somewhere, men who are_ his _responsibility, and at this moment he is failing them. So he runs, as hard as his legs will pump, until he finds the trench through the choking gas by the simple expedition of falling into it._

On the table next to his bed lies a single piece of parchment, covered in neat, looping penmanship. A letter from his Tina, the only one to make it through in the six weeks she's been gone. He keeps it by his pillow to read every night, a paltry talisman against the dream that's been recurring with increasing frequency since he had to relearn how to sleep _alone_.

Besides the precious letter, a small nest emits a mournful chirp as a leafy head pokes out to check on its sleeping Tree. Pickett's Tree is doing the sleep-thing again, when he moans and tosses as though he's in a gale, though Pickett can't feel any wind. He watches through woody brown eyes as his Tree kicks off the large and strangely floppy leaf he wears while sleeping before wrapping his branches protectively around himself.

Newt shivers as he moans, and moans, and moans, and Pickett is powerless to help him.

 _He lands badly, turning his ankle beneath him as he sprawls against a man who is very obviously dead, gas-burnt eyes staring sightlessly into the white sky. He chokes out a cry and scrambles backward, snarling a curse as he stands and heads toward the nearest bend in the trench. Newt murmurs the charm to shore up his protective bubble as he slogs through the mud and blood in a search for life that is beginning to beat a steady refrain in his skull: hopeless, hopeless, hopeless._

The nest is a new thing, and Pickett doesn't like it much. However, after his Tree had sleep-thrashed hard enough to send him flying into a wall a few weeks back, his Tree had insisted on it. So Pickett watches carefully for the first sign of his Tree waking up, moving to stand next to the cherished letter from his Tree's Companion as he waits, and fingers his drooping leaves sadly.

 _There are more men around the bend, and the gas is thicker here. His charm isn't refreshing like it should as he limps through a particularly dense patch of it. A feeling like rusty metal teeth sinks into his eyes, throat, and lungs and he bends double to cough, not allowing his feet to stop moving but slowing down, slowing down. He trips over a body wearing Tina's face and barely notices, focus narrowing to the most basic of biological imperatives until he casts around blindly for the crude ladder that would get him out of this pit of death._

 _He doesn't find one, and his essential failure tastes like hot metal in his mouth, smells like pineapple and pepper._

 _He digs badly trembling fingers into an earthen wall as he struggles to breathe deeply enough to call for help. He doesn't like doing it, but she can handle the fog of gas better than he can, and he cannot seem to find the energy to Disapparate out of here or even cast a basic air-cleansing charm._

" _Snowflake..."_

 _A breathy croak, no good. He struggles up to tiptoes in an attempt to get above the gas, draws the deepest breath the fish hooks in his lungs allow, and tries again._

" _Snowflake!"_

 _Better, but not great. He closes his eyes and wraps his fingers around his wand, grimly pushing past the panic-animal now clawing and yammering around his brain, and tries one last time._

" _SNOWFLAKE!"_

 _A bellow this time, accompanied by a warbling whistle, and it'll have to be good enough. He slumps against the crumbling side of his temporary prison while doing his best to breathe in shallow pants as he awaits either a lingering death—or salvation._

The latches on the case click from the other side of the door, and Pickett turns to watch the door ease open of its own accord. The Dougal hoots a greeting as it crosses the room, climbing up onto a bedpost to watch the Tree when he goes eerily still. Pickett is heartened by this—he's witnessed it before, usually right before his Tree trembles or shouts himself awake.

 _From above, an earth-shaking cry. Newt coughs weakly while turning blindly toward it, jarring his bad ankle and choking out a gasp. Another cry, one he knows, and he crows his delight just as licks of blue flame show at the edge of his vision. A great gust of wind blows his hair back, his charm failing with an unceremonious pop, and the haze of choking gas recedes into ragged tatters, which dissipates into nothing as he watches._

" _Snowflake, over here."_

 _He's trying, he really is, but all that makes it past his split and frothy lips is a series of squeaky mouse-sounds. He straightens and waves his arms, hoping his olive-gray uniform shows against the earth around him, as Snowflake bellows questioningly—from further away, now._

 _Newt struggles upright and forces himself to move in the direction she'd cried from, heedless of the skulls, ankles, and wrists he trods upon, struggling around the first bend, then the second, splashed with mud and blood, half-delirious with fear and panic, but at least no longer choking on streamers of gas. The strength of her wings had beaten it all away._

 _Then, ghastly and unexpected, causing his head to snap up and every ache to lose significance—_

— _the unmistakable cough of heavy artillery fire, followed by a dragon screaming in pain, near enough to rattle his teeth in his jaw._

Pickett and Dougal move closer as one unit, both watching the Tree/Newt with weary eyes, both ready to pounce on the Tree/him at the first sign of panic. It's like this, sometimes: he comes awake either with a scream, which is bad, or weeping, which is somehow worse.

They wait.

" _ **Snowflake!"**_

(Like the Muggle men, he couldn't get to her in time, and that failure tastes like mud.)

* * *

Newt moves shakily about his small kitchen, his muscles and bones creaking like those of a 200-year-old man as he prepares tea, the darkness still hard against the windows when he takes his first, trembling sips. Pickett chirps from his place in his hair, and Newt attempts a smile while rolling his eyes upwards.

"I'm okay," he croaks, even though they both know it's a lie. Pickett blows a disbelieving raspberry and Newt smiles—grimaces—at his teacup. "I am," he says again, and his voice is slightly steadier as the primal sway of the dream slowly, _slowly_ diminishes by dint of good tea and good company.

His hands are almost steady by the time he pours himself another cup, not concerned with attempting to go back to sleep because he knows from hard-won experience that it would be an impossible venture. He's awake now, for better or for worse, so he figures he may as well make the best of it.

The dream may have lessened its hold on him years ago, but it still has _some_ power...and he knows why it's back.

Tina.

He misses her. It's something he can admit to himself freely, but it always hurts the most here, in the early-morning dark, when his nerves are frayed and his emotions are simmering just beneath the surface. She had sat across from him, in this very seat, and drunk tea from the cup with the small chip in the handle. She had eaten his food and shared her smile freely after those rocky first days. She had shared other things too: her thoughts and hopes and dreams; her sense of adventure and humor...

Her body, wrapped sensually around his, hot and tight and urging him ever closer to the verge.

He had held her in this cottage, told her he loved her in this cottage, made love _to_ her in this cottage. She had welcomed it all, repeated it back, initiated it on occasion. She had imprinted on his skin, heart, mind, _soul_ , and left him with the lingering traces of herself in his bed.

And in the six weeks since she'd been gone, he's received one letter. _One_.

He tells himself every day that he is not upset by this.

(He has never been very good at self-deception.)

* * *

 _Dear Newt,_

 _Let me say first that I am sorry I haven't written sooner. To say that things have been crazy here would be a New York-level understatement, but it's the truth: things have been crazy here. Nobody quite knows what to do, and if I had known the war would be so fundamentally disorganized, I probably would have done my best to stay home._

Newt snorts at this part, as he always does while sinking onto the mattress to read. He has the letter memorized but there's still comfort in holding the heavy parchment in his hands and imagining where she had touched it. He can picture her slender fingers and expressive eyes this way, lined and tired but also set and determined. A small smile wrinkles the corner of his mouth.

 _Director Graves arrived yesterday to distribute orders. I'm afraid I can't give you specifics, but I've been chosen for something that, should it succeed, may change the entire course of this war. Things aren't going as well as we would have hoped here, Newt, and I may not be home to you as quickly as we would both like—but I'll see my task through to the end, because that is what I do._

He brings the parchment to his nose, closes his eyes, and inhales deeply. He imagines he can smell her on it, and he takes the time to savor the scent before going on.

 _I've given some thought to what you asked before I left. How would you feel if I suggested a summer wedding? Nothing fancy, just our immediate families and closest friends (do you have many friends? I'm sorry, I never thought to ask before now. I suppose I always assumed...anyways, that's not important) and Pickett, of course. Perhaps he can keep the rings safe from Niffler theft?_

 _I was thinking the beach, that pebbly one we walked in Devon. At noon, maybe, or even dusk. I think it would be beautiful, and I know it would make me the happiest woman on earth, to become Mrs. Newton Scamander in the same spot my husband asked me to become his wife._

 _Please say you'll at least think about it, Newt._

 _I can't say much else because it'll just get edited out anyway, so I'll close this letter. I've never been any good at saying goodbye, so...I love you. I miss you. I can't wait to see you again. Please spare a thought for me whenever possible, and for the men and woman here with me. We are fighting as best we can, and each of us are determined to go home._

 _For me, that home is you._

 _Love, always,_

 _Tina_

Newt closes his eyes while recalling the salt-tang of the English summer coast, the way the sun had shone on her dark hair. He remembers her red lips curving into a smile, and how his hand had shaken as he pushed the ring onto her finger, her mouth forming the words _yes, yes, yes!_ over and over.

(He remembers those same red lips put to good use later, wrapped around him as she flicks, licks and sucks him into a frenzy before laying back to allow him to bury his secrets within her body.)

* * *

His eyes burn with broken sleep all day.

Dougal and Pickett remain close to his side, as they are wont to do whenever he's woken by a bad dream—an occurrence happening more and more frequently. He survives on tea and biscuits, foregoing solid food in favor of throwing himself into work; he's pleased to realize that the third edition of his book is nearing completion. A few more pages of edits and it'll be ready to send off to his publisher, and he can relax. As much as his mind will allow, anyway.

He's just settling into a quiet supper of tea and hunter's sausage when his hearth flares green. He wipes his fingers before going to answer the call, a fissure of fear cleaving his heart at the unexpected interruption. Pickett chirps questioningly and Newt reaches out to stroke him absently, mind racing through the possibilities.

"Newt?"

The tension in Newt's frame winds another notch.

"Newton Scamander, are you around?"

He can think of very few reasons for Theseus to be calling on him at supper time, and none of them are good.

Newt crosses the remaining space at something that is _far_ too undignified to be called a run and falls to his knees with a crack he barely notices, carelessly tossing a handful of Floo powder into the grate.

"Theseus?" he calls, ignorant to the thrum of nerves in his voice when his brother's grim face appears.

Theseus says his name in a voice absent of warmth, and Newt's heart begins to pound. "Can I come through?"

Newt doesn't say anything, just scrambles to his feet. A loud _whoosh_ ejects his brother a few seconds later, unfolding to his full height as he brushes the soot off his dark suit, glancing around nervously. Newt recognizes the evasive tactic for what it is, and his heart stops pounding to give a terrific lurch before lodging in his throat.

"It's Tina, isn't it?" He croaks, the world around him snapping into sudden, sharp focus when his brother looks at him with eyes identical to his own. Theseus doesn't nod or shake his head. He doesn't blink or avert his face. He _does_ swallow thickly, and Newt chokes.

"I think," Theseus says softly, "that you're going to want to sit down for this." His eyes and tone are a gentle contrast to his War Hero reputation, and he holds up a single hand as if gentling a rabid beast when he moves closer to Newt. "I'm so sorry, little brother."

(Later, Theseus Scamander would tell Percival Graves that he now knew the precise sound a human heart made when it broke.)


	2. Chapter 2

It rains the day of Tina's funeral.

Newt catches the Floo to New York the evening before, only to spend a sleepless night in a posh hotel with his brother. Everything is soft and fuzzy around the edges, and he floats through life with a sense of being somehow _disconnected_. The razor's edge of his new reality is heavily blunted by his grief, a feeling so deep and profound that he knows he's only just sampling the barest hint of its weight.

He stands on the balcony of their suite at sunrise and wonders idly how it would feel to fall.

His brother comes to collect him and Newt's morbid curiosity vanishes as if it were never there. He follows Theseus inside, watching shoulders that are so very like his own, hands so very like his own, a body so like his own, stir the tea before passing him a cup.

Newt takes a sip, burns his tongue, doesn't feel it.

Theseus stares at him sadly, but can't quite meet his eyes. Newt wonders about that, briefly. Then a pigeon swoops outside the window and he watches it with avid fascination until it's gone and his tea is cold.

(His brother doesn't interrupt him. Neither does anything else.)

* * *

Queenie is there, as is Jacob, their faces perfectly matched expressions of tragedy. Standing to the side of them and bundled into his favored blue coat, Newt wonders serenely if perhaps his brother hasn't slipped an extra something in his tea that morning.

The obligatory speaking and hand-wringing go on for an interminable time, people who _hadn't_ known Tina, not really (not the way he knows her, now) speaking fondly of how _wonderful_ she was, how _bright a future_ she'd had. _Just a shame, really_ and _what a tragedy, so young to die_ and, worst of all, _she chose this, but that doesn't mean it isn't sad. She died a hero_.

It all sets his teeth on edge, but he really couldn't say why.

President Picquery speaks on behalf of MACUSA. Newt watches her while imagining pixies invading her elaborate head-dress. Director Graves speaks next, and something about his dark, haunted eyes and ashen face gets through to Newt in a way nothing else has so far.

For a single moment, the sheer magnitude of his grief yawns before him, vast and black and _deadly_ —then it's gone, and he rolls his head back on his creaking neck to stare at the sky.

It's the same shade of gray as Tina's dress when he'd asked her to marry him, yet this realization inspires no emotion.

(They don't ask him to speak.)

* * *

Her casket is the same shade of stained hazel as her wand. It is a closed service.

Newt touches the smooth, high-gloss wood, and imagines it is her. He drags rough, trembling fingertips along the grain and wonders what they would do to him if he just...flung it open. Exposed their hypocrisy to the world. How they'd react if he leaped protectively onto the remnants of her and shouted, _Look! Look at what you've done! You did this! You!_

(He knows, on some level, that he'd be screaming into a mirror.)

* * *

Theseus had given him back the ring, _her_ ring, the day he delivered the news.

Newt has worn it ever since, just past the knuckle of his left pinky finger, and he twines it meditatively as the procession winds its slow way to the cemetery. He watches his feet and recalls the way her hair had blown about her lovely face in the late-summer breeze. The way her red, red lips had formed the word _yes_ , over and over.

Something brushes his elbow. He starts violently, convinced that her ghost has come to lay his failures at his feet.

It's not Tina. It's Queenie.

She touches his cheek and he can't help it—he leans into the contact, much as when her sister had done it. She makes a choked sound when he keeps his eyes averted, unwilling to allow her a glimpse into his personal hell.

(Afraid of what she'd find there.)

" _Shhhh..."_ Queenie says and runs her fingers through his hair. Her hand slides down his neck to his shoulders ( _not Tina, not Tina_ ) when she pulls him into her warm embrace. He watches her delicate feet and tries to remember not to trod upon them with his old, sprung boots.

Another arm comes around him from the other side, this one meatier and distinctly masculine in both feel and scent. Jacob.

Suddenly exhausted, Newt sags into them, temporarily buoyed by the warmth of their love.

Queenie touches the ring on his pinky, and his fingers tighten around hers until their tendons creek. She doesn't make a sound and their steps don't falter. Newt thinks, distantly, that he should give the ring to her. But grief is selfish, and it was his ring to give, _his_ , and he had given it to Tina. So it is his to keep.

"Oh, honey," Queenie chokes. She eases them to a stop and Newt risks lifting his head to look around. They're here, people taking their seats in polite silence and raising their wands to protect themselves from the rain. He lifts his face to the clouds and let's the coldly weeping sky take some of the heat out of his tears.

(He's crying again. He's not sure he ever really stopped.)

* * *

Tina's casket is the heaviest burden he's ever carried.

Intellectually, he knows that Tina herself was not this heavy. He should know—he's carried her, more than once, and supported her weight in other instances. He suddenly recalls the time he'd taken her against a wall, their blood running too hot to allow them the luxury of a bed, and squeezes his eyes shut when his heart twists painfully.

He opens them to watch Jacob's steady back. On the other side are Graves and Theseus, and they divide the weight between them until magic takes over and they retreat a step to watch the casket slowly lower itself into the ground.

Newt watches, feeling nothing.

He stands at the edge of the scarred earth for a long, long time. The crowd ripples, breaks apart and eventually drifts away. Queenie comes over to say goodbye, and she is unable to meet his eyes. Jacob is a little easier, but this thing is too big for them all, and any attempts at comfort fail.

A rose appears in his hand, its red color as deep as blood. As red as Tina's lips, forming his name. He stares at it before tossing it into the hole at his feet, and the sound it makes when it hits the wood reverberates through the shattered remains of his heart.

He staggers under the sudden weight of his grief, holding his throbbing head in his hands as something claws at his chest, screaming to be let out. He bites it back, chokes it down, and prays to deities he does not believe in for the ground to heave open and swallow him.

(Across the way, behind a tree, Graves and Theseus hold their heads close as they speak in hushed tones. Newt sees but does not see, and ignores the muffled chime of warning in the back of his skull.

Only much later would he understand.)

* * *

Paris is filthy.

She detaches herself from the alley wall, moving quickly across the cobbled street to the meeting place. It's a gritty, hole-in-the-wall café, where she orders a croissant and a mug of strong, black coffee as she settles in to wait.

From across the way, a figure in near-unrepentant black breaks from the crowd to work its way over. His face is lined with work and stress, his shorn temples prematurely gray. Despite these physical markers of age, or perhaps because of them, he moves with a sinuous grace and a tightly-controlled sense of power.

The woman watches him approach until he sits across from her without a word of acknowledgment. The waiter comes by to deliver her breakfast and she murmurs her thanks. He politely inquires after the other man, who simply shakes his head and waves the server away.

She breaks off a flake of the pastry, chews meditatively, swallows. Another, followed by a chaser of coffee. The man watches her, unblinking.

"How'd it go?" She asks finally. She doesn't have to elaborate. They both know why they're here.

"Better than we ever hoped," he finally says, and she nods as if this was the answer she had expected. She pushes a sheaf of hair behind her ear—hair once as black as night in Hades, now a soft, caramel color—and tries not to wince.

Her head is aching. It has been for weeks now.

"And him? How did he take it?" She touches the opal ring that sits on the third finger of her left hand, twining it in a gesture that both relieves nerves and offers some small measure of comfort.

(If she closes her eyes, she can remember the way his fingers had felt when they'd slipped it onto her.)

The man across from her sighs gustily before finding and holding her gaze.

"Still alive." The, for now, doesn't need to be spoken aloud. She nods and finishes her croissant before speaking again.

"He'll live. He's strong. Stronger than he looks, and sometimes acts. If this hasn't killed him yet, then it won't."

"You _need_ to come back," the man says, and now his eyes burn. "I don't think he'd survive you dying twice."

"Well, he wouldn't know, would he?" She replies easily, but her heart twists in a painful negation of that. The man quirks his eyebrows mildly and she ducks her head.

"You're right," she whispers. "You're right, Mr. Graves."

Percival Graves reaches into his jacket to pull out a bundle of parchment. He passes it to her without comment before standing and tossing a handful of coins on the table.

"It's on me," he says and smooths his snowy cuffs. He catches her eye with a small smile in an attempt to be reassuring. "And he'll live. He will. Like you said: he's stronger than he looks." His eyes go to her ring, lingering for a moment. "I saw him with one like that at the funeral. Was it a replica, or did you send him back the original?"

Her headache is an almost physical weight behind her eyes, and her vision distorts for a terrible moment until she blinks it away. A few deep breaths and she feels calmer. More in control. "A replica. I kept the original. I...it reminds me of him. It's all I have, now."

He nods. "I understand." A pause, then: "You'll see him again. He loves you, you know; that's plain to see. You keep that close, use it to stay alive if you have to, and after this is all over, you'll have your summer wedding. I think he'd like that." He rolls his shoulders. "Stay safe, Tina. And...good luck."

"Thank you, sir," she whispers, but he's already gone.

And the woman who was once Tina Goldstein, a woman who killed herself for an ideal that was not always her own, her hair now the color of caramel and eyes the precise shade of blue-green as _his_ , slips into an alley before Disapparating.


	3. Chapter 3

He's not okay.

He knows he isn't, even without looking in the mirror. He can see it in his hands (fingers too long and thin) and in his arms (former muscular glory eroded to slack vicissitude). He can feel it in his body, the joints and pulleys of which no longer operate smoothly but creak and groan with every movement.

It's in every cup of tea, which contains less and less tea in favor of more and more whiskey. It's there when his mouth tastes like dragon dung every morning and his head thumps like a drum (like her heart had pounded against his palm, once) until he makes another pot of tea (his tea, his way) and suddenly, it's all better.

Newt's hands tremble badly while he works, but he ignores it. His writing skitters over the page when he puts ink to parchment, but he justifies it by fixing the errors with his wand. The creatures suffer for his sudden inability to see beyond his own vast pain, and he notices _that_ —but feels powerless to help it. He relies more and more on Dougal to help him remember to feed, water and clean his menagerie.

Pickett stops sleeping next to his bed eventually, choosing instead to spend his nights in the case. Newt notices, but only very peripherally, and the observance inspires no emotion.

Dougal stops trying to be there when he wakes from dreams. This, he notices, but it is one change he's grateful for: Tina visits him in slumber, and he'd rather wake from those encounters _alone_. It allows him to savor the full bitterness of his grief.

He's selfish: he wants the memories of her (skin eyes hair lips taste feel) all for himself.

* * *

Theseus comes to visit a few times during the long, twilight expanse immediately following her death.

"You can't keep doing this," Theseus says over tea ( _real_ tea, not his tea) during his first visit, and Newt throws him out of the house with a snarl.

"She wouldn't want you to be like this," Theseus says over tea (his tea, this time, and his brother had grimaced before spitting it back into the cup) during his second visit. Newt simply _looks_ at him through flat, disinterested eyes until he changes the subject.

"What about your book?" Theseus asks the third time, and that, at least, gets through. Newt rubs his chin thoughtfully (when was the last time he shaved?) before remembering where he'd stashed the revised manuscript.

Without a word of warning, he tosses the entire thing into the fire.

(He updated it, shortly after she had left. _Scamander and his wife Porpentina..._

He doesn't want the reminder.)

Theseus shows himself out. Newt is just fine with that.

The teapot hits the wall, and the eye-watering stink of whiskey fills the room.

* * *

It's snowing when he wakes one morning.

Snow drifts against a shallow hill, and the shape of the curve reminds him poignantly of the gentle flare of Tina's hip. He braces against the dirty glass, hands curling into fists as he stares, and stares, and stares. Dougal comes to tug on his pant leg but he ignores him; Pickett climbs onto his shoulder and Newt absently brushes him away.

They leave him, and it's only when he can no longer make out the shape of the snowdrift that he touches his cheek curiously and his fingers come away wet. It's the first time in (hours days weeks months years) that he's wept. It's also the first time that he's really noticed the state of his fingernails—ragged and dirty—and the talon-like shape of his hand.

He looks down at himself and is appalled by what he finds. _She wouldn't want this_ , some long-ignored part of him whispers, and that voice is so vital and _alive_ that his heart begins to pound. _You aren't going to bring her back this way_ , he reminds himself, and his eyes blur all over again—but these tears are different.

His cheeks burn when he stumbles across the room to the mirror, at last looking and _seeing_ : overlong, tangled, filthy hair; hollow cheeks and cracked lips and the scraggly beginnings of a beard; the hard line between his brow, and the oily sheen of his neglected skin.

Most telling of all is the stark bruise-flesh beneath his eyes, a result of too much alcohol and too little sleep.

 _You look like Father did at the end_ , he realizes and shivers so violently that his stomach begins to churn.

Then he reaches for his straight razor.

* * *

Tina had loved his hair. She'd told him so, running her fingers through it one night after loving, when her skin was still warm with sweat. Now, hanks of it lay scattered around him as he hacks away, heedless to his fingers as he cuts, and cuts, and cuts.

He finally casts his razor aside to examine the results critically. His head legitimately looks as though a family of Pixies had mown through it, straggly ends uneven and jagged—but it no longer hangs in his eyes, and it no longer looks like something she would _love_ , and so he's happy.

He scrubs his face with soap, wincing when it gets into his eyes before lathering up his badger brush. It's been a while but some things are never forgotten, and he tries his best not to remember the way she'd watched him at this task, last time she was here, as he shaves.

He follows the razor with his fingers and tells himself that the urge to slash his jugular (pulsing with vitality just beneath the skin) is entirely normal.

He doesn't act on the urge, and the water in the basin is cloudy and thick with coppery strands of hair when he's finished.

Newt doesn't recognize himself when he looks in the mirror. He's not sure if that's a good thing.

Something hoots questioning from the doorway and he turns to face it.

"Dougal," he murmurs in his creaky voice, and the Demiguise hoots again before loping across the room. He climbs up his leg and Newt accepts his weight readily, allowing the creature to sling its arms around his shoulders before resting his head on his chest.

Dougal accompanies him down to the case, where Newt uses the facilities behind the shed to shower, and is very, very careful to keep the specter of Tina at bay.

* * *

He reflects, later, that the time immediately after Tina's death was spent in a long, narrow hole. There was some light there, but it was too far away to be of any use. Too distant. The light, which signaled recovery, health, _healing_ , was too far out of reach for him to even considering stretching his arms toward it.

Yet slowly, _slowly_ , he digs and climbs his way out.

It gets easier to sink into his bed at night and climb out of it every morning. The balance of his tea shifts back until it's only _tea_ in his pot. He learned to eat again, and eventually, he no longer needs to lean on Dougal for help with daily tasks.

Pickett returns to sleep next to his bed, though the last letter from Tina never gets put away (he reads it every night before sleep; the edges of the parchment are tattered from repeated handling and the salt of his tears.)

Theseus comes back to visit after a time, and the cottage is neat as a pin once more. His clothes are clean, his nails groomed and no longer ragged. They talk about meaningless things until his brother asks with forced casualness when he intends to return to work with the Beast Division.

"Soon," Newt answers and knows it to be the truth. "Soon."

* * *

Winter has given way to spring when he returns to the Ministry.

His boss welcomes him cordially, almost warmly, and that helps make the transition somewhat easier. He doesn't ask about the manuscript Newt had so foolishly thrown into the fire, and Newt's glad for it—he still hasn't caught up with all that work, mostly because he's doesn't know what to put in the About The Author section (he is still not sure who or what he is, and _that_ burden remains heavy, heavy, heavy.)

He relocated the ring he gave Tina from his pinky finger to a small, well-hidden leather thong. He wears it around his neck always, and it proves a comforting weight. He reaches for it whenever he's feeling sad or scared, or when the burdens of the day prove to be too much (he reaches for it often.)

Pickett eventually forgives him; Dougal does too. He helps his erumpent with her calf—which is soon to be a yearling—and assists the graphorns with their complicated mating rituals. He feeds and cares for his creatures with the same paternal pride he felt before, and soon the memory of Tina in his case (on his bench in his camp bed) loses much of its painful edge until he can smile, almost, when her ghost comes to visit.

The nightmares never really go away, but they do change. He now wakes at night with her taste on his lips, but he comes to love it. He has no inclination toward other women; he'd never really been interested before, and now he's committed to remaining a bachelor for life.

To do anything else would be to profane her memory.

(He thinks of her when the pressure gets to be too much and he takes himself in hand. He vanishes the mess and tries not to feel guilty, afterward.)

It never gets any easier, but it does become more manageable.

There comes a day when she _isn't_ his first thought in the morning and his last thought at night. Eventually, he can eat fish n' chips again, and not feel as though he's going to vomit the meal all over the sidewalk. There's even a lovely, warm Sunday when he goes to the coast of Devon and walks the beach, to stand where he'd asked for her hand and she'd accepted—and these tears are not a sign of weakness, but of strength. They cleanse him from the inside out.

Slowly, much like a man climbing out of the long, narrow tunnel of his grief, he begins to heal.

* * *

Hundreds of miles away, a woman whose name is not Tina Goldstein pushes back a lock of hair and _remembers_.

She recalls blue eyes (which she now wears,) ruddy cheeks and freckles. She tastes his phantom self in her mouth and uses the strength of that memory to pull herself to her feet. Blood streams from a wound in her temple but she flicks it away without really noticing, turning to survey the damage she has caused with a grim yet satisfied smile.

Behind her, a feminine pair of eyes—nearly as dark as her own—stare fixedly into the sky. They're already clouding over in death, and she restrains the great and powerful urge to spit into the other woman's face.

"You lose," she croaks and tightens her grip on her pitted and battered wand. "You _lose_ ," she repeats more strongly, injecting all her despair and scorn into the words as tears cut clean paths through the dust on her filthy cheeks.

" _Newt_ ," she breathes in a cracked voice, and turns toward the west, to where he waits for her if he only knew it. To a future that's hers to claim, now that this final task is done.

She says his name again—a prayer and a promise, a quiet plea for forgiveness, and sets her face towards home.


	4. Chapter 4

Newt's running late for work. Theseus is there to greet him at the lift, face pale and expression strained.

"Where have you _been_?" his brother hisses, and Newt allows a smile—it still feels new to him, this smiling thing—to curl the corner of his mouth.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs humbly. "My alarm clock has been acting up and didn't ring this morning. I suspect Pickett may be sabotaging it. He scolds me regularly that I don't get enough sleep." His smile morphs into a teasing grin but his brother doesn't return it, scowling while reaching for a strap to brace against the suicidal lift.

"There are things we need to discuss," Theseus growls, and Newt inclines his head. His brother sighs heavily while rolling his shoulder into the wall. Newt suddenly notices how tired he looks, gray and worn out and spread thin, and something in the shattered remains of his heart twists.

"I _am_ sorry," he says again and means it this time. "If I had known you needed me, I would have made a greater effort to hurry. I don't mean to cause distress."

"Oh, it's not you," Theseus sighs. He closes his eyes while Newt settles more firmly against the wall, mirroring his older brother's posture when the contraption seems intent on stopping at every floor. "It's _really_ not you," his brother goes on. "There's just things we need to talk about _before_ you hear of them through the rumor mill or...other sources."

"If it's about me," Newt teases gently, "I already told you: I never laid a finger on that dragon. I've no idea how she became pregnant." It's an old, _old_ joke between them, on that's never failed to get at least a smile out of his brother...until now.

The lift shudders to a halt and Theseus sighs heavily before leveling his eyes at the grate—and freezing. His face drains of what little color it has all at once as if someone had pulled a plug, and Newt reaches out to steady him.

"It's alright," he says urgently, and the older man makes a strangled sound. Actively alarmed, Newt turns his head to follow his brother's gaze. "Whatever it is, I'm sure we can...we..."

The words run out of him slowly. There's a woman standing there, watching them through wide, dark eyes. Her hair, dark as a raven's wing, brushes her shoulders. Her shadowed eyes are fathomless pits, and they flit from Newt to Theseus and back to Newt before _staying there_.

Her face is narrower, her skin is paler and she holds herself with a hunched defensiveness that is new—but it's _her_. There's no mistaking it.

He would know the curve of her lips, the graceful line of her neck anywhere.

(He's dreamt of those things too many times to forget.)

"Tina," he says, gasps, _chokes_ , and she starts and nods as if she's forgotten herself somewhere along the way.

"Hello, Newt," the newly-resurrected Tina Goldstein whispers and braves a tremulous smile.

* * *

Newt's not usually one for pubs, preferring to do his drinking in private.

Today is a notable exception.

"Firewhiskey," he managed through clenched teeth. The barkeep looks at him skeptically until Newt shows a steady glare from beneath his growing-too-long-again fringe. The man inclines his head in rueful defeat before pouring a generous dollop.

"Leave the bottle," Newt bites out when the bartender makes to put it back, causing the sommelier to wander away while shaking his head.

The first shot goes down too smoothly for Newt to care about the barkeeper's doubts. He chases it with a second before slamming the glass onto the bar and burying his face in his hands. His eyes burn alongside his chest and stomach, but he ruthlessly pushes aside the urge to cry in favor of scrubbing the back of his neck.

Newt downs shot after shot in quick succession, drowning his renewed pain until his hands are no longer quite so shaky and the light from the gas torches take on a hazy, almost phantasmagorical quality.

"Is this seat taken?" a soft voice asks behind him. His heart clenches painfully before re-starting in triple-time.

"Yes," Newt growls, and eyes the bottle while contemplating upending the entire contents down his throat. "By a ghost, so please leave me alone."

"I can't do that," Tina says and sits beside him.

The bartender eyes her nastily and is in the process of opening his mouth when she coolly flashes her badge and murmurs, in a voice juicy with New York intonation, "For the sake of international cooperation, yeah?" He closes his heavy jaw with a snap to slam glasses around, and Newt allows a moment of vicious triumph for _her_ sake before locking it away.

Tina plucks up the shot glass and pours herself a dollop, tipping it back and stifling a dainty burp before sliding it over to him.

It's small-minded and petty, but Newt rotates the glass so that his mouth doesn't touch where she'd lipped it before metering out another dose, knowing full well that it will tip him from pleasantly buzzed to drunk and _not caring_. The alcohol burns the entire way down, and he bitterly welcomes the distracting pain.

"You're angry with me," Tina says eventually. He cuts his eyes over to see that she isn't facing him. Instead, she speaks to the scarred and flecked surface of the bar, one ragged fingernail meditatively tracing a ring of moisture until she raises her eyes to the mirror. "And you should be," she murmurs. "I know I hurt you. I know you've suffered. And I'm _sorry_ for that. But I'm not sorry for what I've done because I did it for us."

Newt allows all his hurt and doubt to manifest itself in a single inelegant snort. "I can hardly believe that," he snarls, and the jagged shards in his chest shift, drawing blood. He grasps onto the pain, leans into it, and turns it into a club with which to bludgeon her. "Tell me: how does it serve the mythical 'us' if _you_ are dead?"

"It kept you safe," she says steadily, eyes never leaving the mirror. "I can't tell you everything because things are still happening, but my part in it is done. What I did...if they thought I was dead, then you dropped down on their list of priorities. Instead of being a primary target, you were secondary because _I_ was the bigger threat. My death brought you _time_ , Newt."

Tina shrugs one bony shoulder while hooking his glass and pouring herself another drink. "So, like I said: I did it for us. With you alive, we are as safe as anyone can be in this stupid war, and we can be together." She knocks it back and swallows before looking at him from the corner of her eye. "Or...not."

"I should think _not_ ," he says around the protestations choking him, and she doesn't so much as blink. Instead, she nods as if this is what she expected before turning her face away.

"I was afraid of that," Tina says, almost to herself. Newt curls his hands into fists.

"Don't place this at my feet," he tells her in a low, lethal voice. Her back tensed in his peripheral vision and he allows a smile, as thin and cold as a sliver of winter's moon. "I learned of your death in my hearth, Tina—the hearth that should have been _ours_. I Floo'd to New York to bury you. _I carried your casket with my own two hands_ , and slept alone in the bed we shared."

His hands claw at his throat until the leather thong snaps and he brandishes the ring triumphantly. "I promised myself to you, Tina, _and you promised yourself to me_ —only to break that promise at the first opportunity."

Newt turns to her at last and she flinches away from whatever his face shows. He feels a moment of savage triumph. "So no, Tina—there is no _together_. There is no _us_. There is you, and there is me—and I am leaving." He's shouting by the end of his monologue, narrow chest heaving as he stands to clutch the bar with white knuckles.

He looks her fully in the face for the first time in months and refuses to flinch away from her thinned hair and haunted eyes. Tina smiles at him, a sad thing that speaks of loss and regret, underlined by a glimmer of _pride_ , and some of the wind leaves his sails. He glances about the eerily quiet pub before refocusing on her.

"I _can't_ ," he says, and shakily cuffs his wet cheeks. Her hand twitches toward him until he flinches. Hurt colors her expression, and he utters a harsh caw of laughter while turning from her. "I already said goodbye to you once," he whispers over his shoulder. "I won't say it again." He pauses, the selfish words heavy on his tongue, and closes his eyes when the room spins around him before steadying.

 _Leave it alone_ , he tells himself—but he has never been any good at self-deception and so, his traitorous mouth betrays him.

"Did you ever love me?" Newt asks her in a thick, clotted voice, hating himself a little.

"Yes," she says nakedly. "I did, I _do_ , and I never stopped. I loved you every minute, every _second_ of every day, and sometimes that was the only thing that got me through." She exhales shakily, and the urge to gather her close and shield her from this pain is almost overwhelming.

The other patrons in the bar, even the bartender, watch with rapt attention as their little drama plays out. Newt tips his head back to stare at the hammered tin ceiling when Tina continues, blinking against the tears coursing down his cheeks.

"In my mind, I married you a thousand times over, in a thousand different ways," she tells him. "We lived in your cottage in Dorset, and I even named our children. We grew old together, and we were _happy_ , Newt."

She swallows loudly, and he squeezes his eyes shut when she steps toward him, sudden bile coating the back of his throat. "And we can still have that. Maybe not right away, not until you forgive me, but we _can_. Newt, please—"

"No," he cuts her off, and does not look at her while depositing a handful of coins on the counter. "No, we truly cannot, Tina. Any chance of that ended the moment you left; we just didn't know it then."

He imagines phantom fingers reaching out to him, but Newt escapes the pub too quickly to know for sure. The door has barely slammed in his wake before he ducks into a filthy alley to retch up his guilt and pain, whiskey splashing the cobblestones and his boots as he crumbles beneath the weight of his own inadequacies, her traitor's ring branding his palm.

* * *

Theseus finds him hours later, buried in book edits with his throbbing head held between his hands.

"You never _could_ hold your alcohol," his brother teases. Newt cuts his eyes to him without moving.

"What do you want?" He asks curtly, and the slight smile Theseus had cultivated wilts, revealing the deep well of exhaustion it had been designed to hide.

"Am I that transparent, then?" he sighs. "It's not her fault, you know. Tina's. She did what she did for you."

Newt fists his own hair before exhaling roughly. "So I've been told," he says hoarsely. "First by her, now by you." He shakes his head. "The fault of the matter means nothing because it doesn't change what she _did_."

"And what was that?" His brother asks sharply, and Newt blinks at his tone. "She—what? Broke your heart? Saved your life? Prevented you from being used as a tool in this war?" Theseus snorts and shakes his head mournfully. "I'd say, she's done all of the above, and more—all for an ungrateful prat who'd rather nurse a broken heart then thank her for these qualities in the first place, or for the fact that she's still _bloody alive_."

Newt snaps his head up to find his brother staring at him through hard eyes, his lips pressed in a firm line when he nods jerkily. "Quite right, little brother. I don't know what she's told you, but she did it all _for you_. Did she inform you what the parameters of her mission were? Did she tell you what the other side had planned for you?" A meaningful pause, then: "Did you even think to ask?"

Stunned, Newt shakes his head in the negative. Theseus snorts disdainfully. "Thought not. You have never been very good at seeing past pain when it was your own, have you? Typically, this is not a problem, because we're all selfish in pain. But this time it _is_ because you're hurting for all the wrong reasons."

Newt shakes his head, holding up a slim hand and initiating eye contact in his distress. "You can't accuse me of that," Newt begins and hurries on when Theseus makes to talk over him. "Nobody has the right to tell me that my pain isn't...isn't true, or valid. Do you know how it felt to carry her, Theo? Do you know what I felt in my heart?" A pause for emphasis, then, "It was worse than mother and father _combined!_ I've never known anything like that, and to learn that it was for—for nothing. _Nothing_ , Theseus! And you all expect me to just...carry on like nothing's changed?"

He exhales sardonically, ignoring the prickling beneath his eyelids. "She's even further from me now than she was before, because at least when she was dead, I could look forward to my own end and have her again. Now, there is nothing because she is alive and I'm still here without her, without even the promise of death—and it is by _her own choice_."

Theseus looks away, his jaw clenching when he swallows. "It wasn't entirely by her hand," he finally admits. Newt wipes his eyes before motioning for him to go on. "I shouldn't be telling you this, and I can't tell you everything, but the original mission wasn't supposed to involve her _dying_ like that. She had a designated target and she went after it. Almost succeeded, too, except the target recognized her as being involved with _you_ and attempted to kill her. Came very close to it, if we're being honest."

Newt flinches. Theseus doesn't seem to notice, too absorbed in recall. "That's when we had the idea of her dying, really. After we saved her, we realized that she has a knack for Transfiguration that is almost on par with Grindelwald himself. So we changed her appearance, killed her in an official capacity, and she went undercover."

He shrugs, the gesture a precise mirror of his little brother's, and meets the identical eyes across from him. "Your Tina may well have turned the tide of this war because she eliminated Grindelwald's second-in-command, all on her own and thereby saving your life in the process." A disdainful sniff. "The least you could do is be grateful."

"I _am_ ," Newt insists, though he's no longer certain he's telling the truth. His brother conveys his disbelief through an elegantly raised eyebrow, and Newt turns back to his manuscript to hide his sudden doubts until Theseus crosses the room.

"You aren't, yet," Theseus says gently, and squeezes his shoulder. Feeling suddenly fifteen and broken-hearted once more, Newt clings to him with a panicky desperation. His brother nods as if this is what he expected before crouching down. "You will be, I promise. Everything that woman did for and to you, she did out of love. Surely you can understand that, Newt? She never meant to cause you pain; only to spare you it."

"Why didn't she tell me?" He asks in a hoarse voice. Theseus stiffens while clearing his throat.

"She...couldn't," he says delicately, and Newt blinks at him through wet eyes. "The foundations of this plan were laid back in New York," Theseus clarifies, "and when she received her orders, she accepted them without hesitation. We required an Unbreakable Vow to ensure that she'd do her job and she didn't so much as _flinch_. She truly _couldn't_ tell you, little brother. Neither could I, for that matter, though there were many times I was intent on _trying_ , even if it meant my death."

"Who else knew?" Newt asks.

Theseus scratches his wrist absently before admitting, "Director Graves. It was just the three of us, though; well, and the Minister and president Picquery, but they were ignorant of the finer details."

"So Graves knew too," Newt mumbled in shock, and raises wide eyes to his brother. "That's why you and he were talking at the funeral—that's why you stuck so close to me! You were afraid I'd figure it out."

"No," Theseus corrects sharply, "I stayed by your side because you're my blood, the only family I have left, and I was terrified I'd have your death on my conscience in addition to what happened with Tina. You weren't _well_ , or don't you remember?" A pointed silence and Newt has the good grace to flush before looking away. "I'm aware of how close I came to losing you, little brother, and please believe me when I say that I would have taken away your pain _were I able_ ; as it stands, it's something for which I must make amends for the rest of my life."

"This changes nothing," Newt decides, shaking his head. Theseus tosses his hands in the air before running them through his ruddy hair. Newt takes up his quill and tries to focus on the blurry parchment before him, hopelessly lost and confused to what he was trying to convey and unable to care. "You, Theo, I will forgive someday. Tina—Miss Goldstein...I cannot see that happening." An unwelcome glimpse of her smile in his memory, superimposed over her mourning countenance of earlier, until he closes his eyes.

"So—that's it, then?" Theseus asks in disbelief. "You're just going to toss it all away like rubbish?"

"Why shouldn't I?" Newt asks hoarsely. "Isn't that essentially what she did to me?"

" _No!"_ Theseus explodes, and his younger brother looks at him skeptically. "There was no _tossing_ of any sort from her end, except for maybe your trust and the entirely of her _reputation_! Don't you realize that this is _bigger_ than you, Newton? Can't you bloody well _see_ that?" A huff of breath and his expression turns hard. "Do you know who Grindelwald's lieutenant was? Do you?"

Newt shakes his head while opening his mouth until his brother's hand slashes through the air.

"Leta _bloody_ Lestrange," Theseus pronounces with an elegant sneer, and Newt feels his jaw unhinge in shock as the pieces begin to come together in his mind. It's with an almost audible _click_ that everything slots into place, and her role—and his—in this whole thing becomes clear.

His brother, looking grimly pleased, nods. "I see now that you understand," he bites out and strides for the door. "I can only trust you to do the right thing. Newt—you were willing to forgive Leta, should the opportunity arise." Theseus raises a pointed eyebrow, lips pressed in a bloodless line. "Surely you can do one better for the woman you had intended to marry. Can't you?" He doesn't wait for an answer, and the door clicks gently closed in his wake.

Newt, rocked to his foundation, manuscripts and headache and sore heart forgotten, can only stare blankly at the wall until well after night has fallen.


	5. Chapter 5

Life returns to normal, or as close to normal as it can be on the heels of such profound revelations.

Tina doesn't return to MACUSA, not that Newt keeps track. He just… _sees_ her, every day, from a distance. Often while waiting in the queue for the lift. They don't acknowledge each other; indeed, he couldn't say if she notices him at all.

They ride together once or twice, encounters punctuated by frosty civility and a distinct lack of eye contact.

"Where to?" he asks her shoes.

"Department of Mysteries," or perhaps, "Minister's Office," Tina bites out and doesn't thank him.

Newt sees her while arriving via Floo or when he stumbles, damp and irritated, out of the plumbing that brings them in through the streets. He sees her late at night when he's leaving to Disapparate home to the comforts of tea and solitude. He spots her on lunch breaks and there's even a poignant moment, after summer, autumn, and winter have lapsed into spring once more when he visits his preferred fish n' chips vendor, and she's _there_.

He goes home hungry.

* * *

He stops seeing her in July.

Newt tells himself he isn't panicking when one day goes by without her, then another. _You don't care_ , he reminds himself, not for the first time. _She's a part of your past. Focus on your creatures, they are what's important now,_ and it works—for a little while.

Two days pass, four days, then a week, and no sign of her. Newt stops making excuses to check his inter-office mailbox and starts staggering his lunch breaks in the hopes that she's changed her _own_ schedule. He continues to tell himself that he doesn't care, that he's only bothered by the shake-up to his cherished routine.

A second week comes and goes. His continuous and ongoing revisions (truly, if anyone had thought to tell him _how much work_ his bloody work his book would be, he may very well have turned down the project!) bringing him no pleasure because she's _not there_.

His creatures sense the shift in his mood despite his strenuous denials. Pickett once more sleeps on the side table. Dougal is never far, and always reliable to be tripped over during late-night excursions to the outhouse or for a spot of tea.

His pillow is damp every morning, but he cannot bear to ponder why.

Newt goes on telling himself that he doesn't care, that he doesn't miss her, that she isn't important through the third week and the fourth. He repeats the lie as he scourers each newspaper frantically for news of her, for any clue as to her whereabouts; he practices self-deception every time he keeps his head down and soaks in the office gossip, until his ears ring with the inanity of it all and he _needs_ to retreat, if only for a little while, to the solitude of his case.

There, he loses himself in work and persists in the belief that she doesn't matter, that he's still incredibly hurt. That he doesn't love her: still, now, and forevermore.

In his heart of heart, hidden in the dark, fragrant night of his case, he fails.

* * *

"She's only gone back to New York, you know."

Newt jerks his head up from his attempts at writing, deeply startled. His brother is leaning jauntily against the door to his office, munching an apple and smirking as if he knows a secret Newt isn't privy to—which, Newt supposes, he probably does.

"Who?" he asks around a confused blink, as if they both don't _know_.

Theseus swallows before tossing his head back, laughing ringingly. "Don't _pretend_ , little brother," he teases. "You and I both know we're talking about the lovely Miss Goldstein."

He moves to toss the remains of the apple in the bin before thinking better of it, opening the lid of Newt's case to drop it down with a muttered, "Here you are, Dougal." A thankful-sounding grunt sounds from within before he snaps it shut.

Newt tosses him a reproachful look while leaning back in his creaky chair to stretch. "Why would I need to know that?" he asks in a level voice, actively avoiding eye-contact in favor of his brother's highly-polished shoes. Theseus scoffs.

"Isn't it obvious?" The smirk is evident in his voice. "You've only been _mooning_ over her since she left. You think none of us have noticed the way you two would make eyes at each other from across the lobby? Don't be _daft_ , Newton." He snorts rudely. "The entire bloody Ministry is waiting for you to stop being a stiff-necked prick and win her back. We all know she'd accept, she's absolutely _mad_ for you."

Newt lifts his head to find his brother watching him keenly, his expression a strange hybrid of gentle teasing and exasperation. "I'm afraid _I_ can't see why, but I suppose there's no accounting for taste, is there?"

Newt huffs in disbelief. " _Now_ who's being daft?" he asks, but there's no heat behind his words. Indeed, he's finding it harder and harder to recall precisely _why_ he was so upset about what his former fiancee and brother had done. He can recognize now, with the accumulated perspective of time and distance between them, that they were working for a good greater than his own life, and that they hadn't colluded for the sake of hurting him.

Still.

 _Still_.

Theseus straightens abruptly. Newt hastily diverts the course of his thoughts, hoping against hope that his face doesn't give away too much. Watching his brother grow thoughtful makes his heart sink as he realizes he likely did a poor job of it.

"That's not what I came here for, though," Theseus says quietly. He reaches into his waistcoat pocket to pull out a small, creamy envelope, crossing the room to place it on the desk. Newt stares at it before lifting his head curiously, watching his brother smirk.

"Congratulations," Theseus intones without a trace of irony. "Your presence is required at a MACUSA banquet celebrating the achievements made over the course of this bloody war. Including the successful capture of Gellert Grindelwald at the hands of yourself and one Miss Porpentina Goldstein."

His eyes twinkle with the barest trace of humor when Newt's jaw slowly unhinges. "Unfortunately, attendance is compulsory—there's no getting out of it, I'm afraid, since you're to receive a Medal of Accommodation."

Theseus taps the envelope. "That's where Tina's gone. To help them prepare the entire thing. She was not happy about it, truth be told, but with the war efforts here slowing down…" he exhales slowly. "Well. We couldn't very well _keep_ her, could we?"

Newt frowns, says nothing.

Theseus shrugs one casual shoulder before saying, all bored indifference: "She asked after you in her last letter, you know."

Newt worries the envelope between his fingers to hide the sudden trembling in them. "Did she?" His voice breaks, and he clears his throat hastily before going on. "Why—why would she do that?"

His brother looks at him with exaggerated patience for a long, _long_ minute. "Why, indeed?" he drawls while turning away. Newt slumps against his desk until his brother stops halfway through the act of opening the door. He straightens with a forced casual air, carelessly inspecting his cuticles as Theseus tilts his head thoughtfully.

"I'd imagine," Theseus intones softly, "she asks after _you_ for the same reason you changed your routine after she vanished." He pauses a moment. "Just an observation, little brother." Then he's gone, the door swinging shut on silent hinges behind him.

Newt doesn't get any more work done that day, and he doesn't notice the way his left-hand steals into his waistcoat pocket, where a ring attached to a rawhide string—tarnished now, as if handled constantly—sits forlornly.

He doesn't allow himself to think when he sends off the RSVP to the invitation and keeps his mind carefully blank as he leaves the Ministry _hours_ earlier than scheduled, wondering only how much a new dress suit would cost him.

No one tries to stop him.

* * *

The MACUSA banquet is just as long and boring as he had feared, an interminable stretch of speeches and mingling and offers to dance from coiffed witches he'd just as soon ignore.

Newt is the nominal guest of honor, so he limits himself to turning down only a few offers, circling the floor with his partner stiff on his arm while surreptitiously scanning for Tina. The fact that she hasn't shown isn't lost on him. Neither is the realization that they were to have their own, private table. He finds himself wondering, as the night drags on, whose idea that had been. Newt isn't sure if he wants to thank the responsible party, or hex them into next week. He suspects his brother may have had something to do with it, which means _neither_ option is truly viable.

He disentangles himself from his latest dance-partner, a waif-thin witch wearing far too much perfume, and cranes his neck to look for his brother. He spots him over by the canapes, looking pale and strained as he speaks with Percival Graves until both men swivel as one to sight him. Newt ducks his head on instinct before squaring his shoulders, wading through the crowd toward the tensely waiting men.

"Newton," Theseus greets him in a low voice and inclines his head toward a quiet corner. They congregate there, and his brother and the director of Magical Law Enforcement share a weighted look before turning on him.

Newt swallows, nervously fingering the lapel of his suit and resisting the urge to loosen his tie.

"What is it?" he asks. Theseus looks over his head at the crowd, seemingly at a loss for words, and Newt feels something deep within him _shift_ at the unfamiliar gesture.

"It's Tina, isn't it?" he says in a monotone. Theseus meets his eyes, nodding grimly. Newt manages a shaky inhale. "Is she dead?" he asks, and his voice is amazingly steady.

It's Graves who answers him. "She's...not," he says slowly, and Newt blinks. "She is in bad shape, though." He runs his fingers through his hair, an agitated gesture that Newt recognizes as hinting to his own frustrated helplessness. "There was a raid. It went badly. She was the first one in, so she…" He spreads his hands, palms up, while looking at him imploringly.

"Where is she?" The question is out of his mouth before Newt has time to consider it. The two men share a considering look until Newt lifts his gaze from their shoes. " _Where is she?_ " he repeats, lower, and Theseus blinks at his tone.

"St. Toothaker's," he admits, "but I'm not sure you want to see her right now. She was...badly injured. The healers aren't sure she'll make a full recovery, Newt." He takes a deep breath. "I am _very_ sorry."

Newt watches him through dangerously narrowed eyes. "This isn't another game, is it?" he asks, and both the older men shift awkwardly when Newt's fingers steal into his sleeve to finger the handle of his wand. "This isn't another scheme for the war effort? Something to make me run blindly after her so you can rearrange the chessboard behind my back?"

Theseus makes to open his mouth, but Graves raises his hand. "No, it's okay," he says and turns to Newt. "That's a fair question and I understand your concerns, but this is _real_. Miss Goldstein really _was_ first in, and she really _is_ hurt." A quick glance at his pocket watch. "And if you want to go to her, we won't stop you—but you'd better hurry because visiting hours end soon."

Newt meets the other man's eyes for a long moment. Graves stares back placidly while Theseus seems to pace in place. "All right, then," Newt decides after a long moment. He reaches into his pocket to find the ring, drawing strength from the cool metal band before fetching a deep breath. "I want to see her," he admits. "Would one of you be so kind as to show me how to get there?"

Theseus and Graves do him one better: they act as his official Auror Escorts and manage to get him out of the banquet with a minimum of fuss. "Thank you," Newt murmurs humbly, and Theseus produces a small smile.

"Anytime, little brother," he says, and for the first time in years, Newt allows himself to be spun into Side-Along Disapparition.


	6. Chapter 6

Tina's chest rises and falls steadily when Newt creeps into her room, his hands balled into helpless fists at his side.

She appears to be sleeping, but it isn't a _good_ sleep if the heavy brackets framing her mouth are to be believed. Sweat stands on her brow, and her hair is tangled in a way that Newt knows she normally wouldn't allow.

Theseus and Graves trail behind him when Newt stops at her side and takes her hand. "What happened?" he asks in a hoarse whisper.

The two other men share a weighty, communicative look, silently debating how much to share. Theseus speaks first.

"Hexed," he says shortly. "We still aren't sure with what, but we _do_ know that it's left some nasty marks. She was also hit with the Cruciatus curse, and quite heavily. There were multiple wizards casting it." He knocks disconsolate knuckles against the door frame while staring at his feet. "That's why they sedated her. Her nerves and mind need time to heal."

Newt squeezes her delicate fingers, feeling the minute trembles that work through them, and tugs out his handkerchief. He tenderly blots her shiny forehead while sinking into a crouch, his eyes never leaving her face. "Prognosis?" he asks and doesn't recognize the sound of his own voice.

"Good," Theseus and Graves say together, and Newt leans his forehead against the mattress when he's swept with sheer relief. "The healers say she'll survive, though she may have some permanent damage or scarring from the hexes." Theseus huffs something too short and harsh to be called laughter. "She fought like hell, Newt. You should be proud."

"I am," Newt murmurs absently, and misses the look Theseus and Graves share behind his back. "I always knew she was a fighter. _That_ doesn't surprise me." He glances at the two men hovering in the doorway. "What was the mission, anyway? How did this happen?"

Graves sighs. "More fanatics, what else? We knew there'd be an uptick in Dark activity after we announced the banquet. We just didn't expect it to be so severe. Grindelwald has followers everywhere, it seems, and they outnumber us." He shrugs uncomfortably. "Tina—Miss Goldstein—she knew she had to get ready but, as she put it, 'I'm better put to use out _there_ , Mister Graves.' We all know how stubborn she can be."

Newt carefully bites back a small, proud smile. "That she is," he murmurs and turns back to the woman on the bed. He carefully brushes her hair away from her face before smoothing it down, gently fanning his thumb over the crest of her cheek. It's the first time he's touched her in a year, and he grimly ignores the thrill that courses through him at the contact before reluctantly withdrawing his hand.

A hand identical to his own, minus the scarring, lands on his shoulder. "When will she wake?"

Theseus squeezes him, a gesture of comfort and solidarity. "Soon, little brother." He gently ruffles Newt's overlong hair, an affection they haven't shared between them in many years. Sudden tears sting Newt's eyes until he brushes them away with his knuckles.

"Well." His voice cracks, and he roughly clears his throat. "I think I'll stay, then." Newt looks up at his brother, eyes wide. "Will you...tell them? That I won't be back? They can send the sodding medal to my desk at the Ministry if it means that much to them, I don't care." He squeezes Tina's hand. "I'm not leaving."

Theseus smiles. "No one expects you to," he murmurs and walks away after one last reassuring pat. "You stay. We'll tell the healers that you aren't to be disturbed. They won't run you off, and if they do, they know they'll answer to MACUSA and the Ministry for it."

Graves turns and makes his exit after a parting nod. Theseus lingers for a moment, obviously debating something. "Try not to forget about yourself," he says finally. Newt raises his eyebrows and his brother shrugs. "I know how you get. You _do_ have to eat and sleep _sometimes_ , Newton. You're only human."

"I know," Newt whispers, and turns back to Tina.

His mind roils with thoughts and memories he's spent over a year suppressing, the brief interlude of joy colored by the happiness of having her, intersected with the untold pain of _losing_ her—not once, but twice, the second time at the behest of his own misplaced pride.

"I _do_ know," he repeats to himself and rests his cheek on her hand.

* * *

 _He's dreaming. He knows he's dreaming because he's been here before, more times than he can count._

 _In his dream, there is he and there is Tina—and they are happy, with the world and each other._

 _In his dream, he puts his arms around her before sinking onto a single knee. He asks the question and her mouth says_ Yes, Newt. Yes! _over and over. He kisses her red lips ecstatically before taking her home, where she puts them to other, more pleasurable uses._

 _In his dream, he pulls her close after she announces that she is expecting their first child and cradles her at night when the child's cavorting keeps them awake. She squeezes his hand during delivery, and he holds his son protectively while the healer cleans Tina up._

 _Then they hold him together, a true family, and his heart swells beyond the boundaries of his chest as his eyes blur with simple joy._

 _In his dream, his cheek is coarse with stubble when familiar, delicate fingers stroke it—_

"Newt?"

 _A scratchy whisper and his dream-self takes notice because_ this _is new_. Wake up, _he tells himself from the depths of sleep. The fingers pressed against his skin curl before stroking gently, and the voice comes again:_

"Newt...is it really you?"

Wake up, _he tells himself again, but it's not until the dream-fingers move away from him that he suddenly aches all over, the dream dissolving into ragged tatters around him._

Newt comes awake all at once, eyes snapping open with an explosive gasp.

He's immediately aware of three things: that he's still in his new suit, now rumpled and sodden from a night spent at her bedside; that his cheek tingles acutely from the loss of her touch; and that Tina is awake and aware and watching him through wide, shiny eyes.

"Tina," he chokes.

She makes to retract her hovering hand until he squeezes it, his fingers trembling badly. " _Tina,"_ he repeats in an awed whisper, and her wide-eyed stare morphs into a grin. A good grin, just like he remembers, with her dimple on display and everything, until her smile slips and her brow creases, her expression closing off when she looks away.

"I thought I was dreaming you," she mumbles, and her free hand worries the edge of the scratchy hospital blanket. "I thought...well. Nevermind what I thought." She clears her throat. "I'm...I'm glad you're here, though."

"I couldn't stay away," Newt says quickly, the words tumbling out of him. "I saw you weren't at that ridiculous banquet and I _knew_ something was wrong." He squeezes her until she stares down at their joined fingers. "My brother and Graves pulled me out of there, brought me to you, and I…"

He can't put into words what seeing her so quiet and still had done to him. He can't articulate how profoundly it had hurt him—and how sharp a reminder it was of everything that remained unsaid.

Tina opens her mouth as if to speak, and Newt plows on, suddenly fearful that she'll reject him or, worse, send him away.

"Are you in pain?" he babbles. "I can fetch a healer, they said you'd likely be hurting when you woke up—you took a curse, see, and they aren't sure—well, they said that...that you'd…"

"Newt."

The room brightens and spins around him when he stands too quickly, all the blood in his body rushing to his head. Tina tightens her grip on him while sitting up, her eyes worried. "I'll just get the healer then, shall I? Yes, I think that'll do, they'll want to know that you're awake—"

" _Newt."_

Her tone cuts through his words with surgical precision. He chokes on whatever he meant to say, grimacing at her blankets before daring to look at her face. Her eyes, when he meets them, are soft and shining liquidly. Tina says his name again, and her voice cracks when she repeats it, over and over, until her eyes overflow and she weeps openly.

Stunned, Newt moves on instinct. He takes a knee on her bed before scooting closer, gingerly pulling her into the circle of his arms. She wraps herself around him, burying her face in his shoulder as he strokes her hair.

"I'm here," he mumbles while blinking away tears of his own. "I'm here."

* * *

"I was so _scared_ ," Tina admits sometime later.

Her tears have dried to a salt-crust on the front of his shirt. His entire suit is wrinkled beyond redemption but he can't bring himself to care, so he loosens his bowtie, careful not to disturb where she is tucked against his chest. "I really was afraid I'd never see you again, and there's still so much I…" She trails off, nervously nibbling her lip.

He glances down at her face before sighing heavily. "I had the same thought," he confesses. "Though much earlier—back when you left the Ministry. I didn't know why, and I was...well, I suppose I was too _proud_ to ask if we're being honest." He laughs a little ruefully, thinking that the admission should have pained him more than it does. "Seems so silly now, but Theseus set me straight. Gave me the invitation to the Hero's Banquet, though I still can't fathom why." He carefully cards his fingers through her tangled hair. "I maintain that the entire thing is ridiculous because I'm no hero."

Silence falls between them, broken only by the occasional whisper of the sheets when Tina shifts restlessly. " _Are_ you in pain?" Newt finally thinks to ask. She frowns before hesitantly nodding.

"I am," she sighs, "but I'm really not looking forward to being knocked out again. I...I enjoy talking to you."

Newt gently disentangles himself from her, smoothing her hair and tucking the sheets around her shoulders. "And I, you. But you won't recover if you don't let the healers do their job." He pats her hand. "I'll go fetch one. You stay here and rest. I'll be right back."

His hand has just landed on the doorknob when her voice sounds behind him, uncharacteristically small and meek. "Hey, Newt?" He stops on the threshold, holding his breath. "I just wanted to say...I _am_ sorry, you know. For everything. I really never meant to hurt you." She swallows thickly. "I just...it needed to be done, and I was the best woman for the job."

He leans his forehead against the doorjamb, cheeks heating as his eyes fill with tears. "I know," he admits in a husky whisper. "I _know_ , Tina. On some level, I've always known."

He turns to face her, and she smiles at him through her tears. He thinks, fleetingly, that she has never looked more beautiful. "You and I...we are both morally gray, and we've chosen to use this to our advantage. It was wrong of me to hold that against you." He blinks, not bothering to wipe away the tears now streaming down his cheeks. "And for what it's worth, I'm sorry, too. For—for everything."

Tina puts her face in her hands as her shoulders shake. She's composed when she finally looks up at him, though her eyes are still overbright when her smile slips into something truly radiant, shining at him from within.

"It's okay," she whispers tremulously. "Everything is okay."

Newt nods, speechless. Then, after one last look, he cuffs his eyes before setting off to find the healer.

* * *

 _ **Six months later…**_

She's late for their weekly get-together, which isn't unusual, but still—Newt has to put in a focused effort not to fret. It's still new to him, this worrying thing, and though he tries to remind himself that _worrying means you suffer twice!_ he can't help but think that any amount of suffering, when it comes to her, is worth it.

He would, after all, be in a position to know.

Tina comes breezing through the door not five minutes later—hair adorably mussed, cheeks pink with the blustery day. She sheds her coat and galoshes before using her fingers as a rudimentary comb.

She shakes out her hair and casts a drying charm while crossing his sitting room, her slight limp—a permanent reminder of the raid that had gone so disastrously wrong—more pronounced with the miserable weather.

"I'm sorry," she says with a sheepish smile. "Work ran over, I couldn't get away on time." Tina flushes while taking in the spread and nods when he offers her a glass of wine. "This all looks great, anyway."

"Lamb curry," Newt says simply, and pulls out her chair. She sits with a nod of thanks before raising her glass. They toast to their good health and the weather, and Newt takes a sip of his wine before serving up their supper. "Seemed appropriate for this weather, something hearty to warm us from within." He grins. "I even held back on the spice for you."

Tina takes a cautious bite. "I appreciate that," she says around a mouthful of fragrant rice. "I prefer to live with my taste buds intact, thank you very much."

Newt snorts into his glass. "You've no idea," he mumbles. "Someday, I'll have to take you to India. Maybe even Morocco. Your palate will never be the same after that, I promise."

She sets down her wineglass. "I'd like that," she says carefully. Across from her, Newt goes still as his brain catches up with his mouth until he moistens his lips and looks at her from beneath his fringe. "I'd like that very much," she emphasizes while meeting his eyes, and holds his unblinking gaze.

"Yes, well…" Newt says eventually. His case rattles from its corner and they turn as one to look, effectively breaking their tableau. He snorts out a laugh when the case falls still, and Tina covers her mouth to hide her giggles. The faulty latch on the case chooses that moment to open with a loud _snick!_ and their eyes meet as they dissolve into laughter.

"Well," Tina quips breathlessly, "it's good to know some things never change! I thought you were going to get that fixed?"

"I have," Newt says while wiping the tears from his eyes. "It's just bloody stubborn. Also, Dougal likes to open it from inside, the bugger." A questioning hoot sounds from across the room, which only serves to make them laugh harder until they're both hiding their faces in their napkins to scrub away the evidence of their mirth.

" _Whew,"_ Tina breathes. "I haven't laughed like that since—" She cuts herself off abruptly, cheeks going faintly pink. Newt can guess her bitten off words and looks at her with a complex mixture of pain, hope, and frustration when she snaps her jaw shut.

"It has been a while," he agrees seriously, and bravely meets her eyes.

Tina can't seem to think of a response to that, so she shoves a forkful of food in her mouth instead. She doesn't look away from him though, and Newt refuses to drop his eyes for the remainder of the meal.

* * *

Tina cleans up their supper, as is her habit, before joining him at the hearth.

Newt hands her a snifter of brandy, and she nods her thanks before settling onto the narrow couch. She sips her drink slowly, watching him make a few corrections to his manuscript from the corner of her eye until he sets it aside to stretch languorously.

Staring into the fire, Tina absently traces the scar marring her collarbone until she notices his eyes following the path of her fingers. She looks away, blushing.

"Does it hurt?" he asks. Tina takes a quick swallow of her drink, lips pulling into a frown.

"Only when it rains," she answers quietly.

"All the time, then," Newt says in a near-whisper. She turns to answer him but stops, mouth held awkwardly open when he reaches out to her. Tremble fingers ghost over the fabric of her blouse, just where the ugly gash hides, before he sniffles and allows his hands to fall. "Do you have anything that helps?"

Tina moistens her lips before answering. "There really isn't anything..." Newt's eyebrows furrow as he reaches for her again. She sways into him when he lightly covers the scar with his palm.

"I have a salve—" he begins, but Tina cuts him off by covering his hand with her own.

"Please don't stop," she breathes.

Newt exhales sharply. "Can you feel that?" he asks, curling his fingers. Tina nods.

"Yes." Then: "No ones touched it—touched _me_ —since before the hospital. I'm sorry, I know I have no right to ask, but I—"

He raises his other hand to slant a finger across her lips while shifting closer. She snaps her mouth shut when his thumb pushes aside the fabric of her blouse before gently brushing her skin.

"No one?" he asks, and though his tone is idle, the question is anything _but_.

"No," she whispers when his other hand joins his first. "Not since...since you, Newt."

"Hmmm." His knuckles brush her neck when he pulls his hands away.

" _Hmm_ ," he repeats, tone thoughtful, and takes a quick gulp of his brandy. Newt glances at her from the corner of his eye to find a question writ large across her face, before draining the remainder of his glass in one swallow. He sets it aside, nervous fingers curling into themselves as he speaks to the flames.

"What was it like?" he asks abruptly. The fire paints her face in alternating bands of light and shadow when she stares at it pensively before jerking her eyes to his, her gaze curiously heavy-lidded. "What was it like out there, when you were following Leta's trail? Was it...was it truly awful?"

Tina sets her glass down carefully while looking away. "It wasn't so bad," she says slowly, seeming to feel along her words. "I missed my sister, and work—and you. You most of all. But I had my mission, and I had my memories, and that kept me going." She chances meeting his eyes with the smallest hint of a smile. "I wasn't lying when I said that I married you a thousand times over in my head. Most nights, that was the only way I could get myself to sleep."

Newt digests this without saying anything. Tina watches him curiously, looking faintly concerned as he struggles not to let the sudden pounding of his heart choke him. "But, you know what it's like," she prompts gently. "You served during the Great War. You know how hard it is to be away from the people you love."

He lifts his head to meet her eyes, her expression unwavering. "Yes," Newt agrees, "but it's not quite the same, is it? At least then, I had support. Out there, you were _alone_." He swallows when his voice dips into a hoarse whisper. "And then, when you came home, you were also alone. Weren't you?"

She shakes her head without hesitation. "No. Not really. I—I mean _yes_ , I was, in a way, but I still had Queenie, and Jacob, and Mr. Graves and your brother. They got me through." She takes a deep breath. "And you. I still had you, even if I didn't, you know… _have_ you."

"Memories." Her eyes are the color of cinnamon by the light of the fire.

"Yes."

He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. Another, and his voice wavers only slightly when he speaks again. "My brother had some very choice words for me, you know. After everything happened. Called me all sorts of a fool, and other, much more unkind things." He smirks slightly. "I'm beginning to think that he wasn't _entirely_ wrong."

His fingers dip into his waistcoat pocket, an old and familiar quirk. She watches him, fascinated.

"Then I got hurt," Tina murmurs, "and you came to New York." Her fingers rub the scars on her chest. He covers her hand with his own while moving closer, their thighs now pressed together.

"I did," he says, "and I never really left. I stayed with you." He rubs the back of her knuckles with his thumb in soothing arcs. She glances down at their hands before meeting his eyes.

"Why? Why'd you stay, Newt?" Tina watches him with an expression of mingled pain and hope as he weaves their fingers together.

"Because I was wrong," he whispers. "It just took the possibility of losing you _again_ to make me realize that I wasn't ready to let you go."

"Oh." Newt holds her with one hand as the other fidgets out of his pocket, curled into a fist to rest on his knees.

Newt relaxes his hand, and the movement causes Tina to instinctively look down. A ring sits innocently in the center of his palm. It's still attached to the hank of rawhide from the pub, though now it looks weathered and greasy as if handled by someone with a tendency for nervous twitches.

She huffs out a shocked breath before yanking her gaze up to his. Her face, if possible, is even brighter with the light of hope behind it.

"I would like to give this back to you," he says softly. "I realize that I am not worthy of you and that I still have so much to do before you can forgive me. But, Tina, I'm willing to spend the duration of my life making up for my mistakes, if it means I get to spend that life with you. Will you accept this ring I offer and recognize it as the plea for forgiveness that it is? Will you please let me _try_?"

"Are you sure?" she asks, looking at him searchingly. He examines his lap to hide from her scrutiny.

"I am," he whispers. He clears his throat when his fingers fumble at the greasy rawhide, shaking too badly to firm his grip. Tina covers his hand with her wondrously steady one, releasing the knot and freeing the battered ring. She examines it curiously before looking at his face, her eyes wide.

"I can't take this," she tells him.

Newt feels his face fall, his expression closing off to her. His shoulders tense when he looks away until Tina tucks her fingers beneath his chin and turns his face toward hers, forcing him to meet her eyes.

"I can't take this," she repeats softly, "because this isn't _your_ ring." His eyes narrow warningly as a smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. He watches her reach for her ever-present locket, flicking it open to dump something into her palm: a ring, _his_ ring, the one he'd put on her finger so long ago.

Newt stares, eyes darting between the two bands—one tarnished and careworn, the other with its pristine shine intact.

"A replica," he breathes, and now he's the one fighting back a smile. "You sent back a _replica_. Oh, Tina…"

Her breathless smile breaks free at last. "Yes."

He looks at her and she seems unsure of what to expect from him, biting her lip as he processes it all. Stunned, he takes the ring, brushing his fingers over her palm in the process, and holds it up. Its civilized gleam seems to fill the room.

"May I…?" he asks. It takes her a moment to realize what he's asking. Then Tina lifts her left hand, not even attempting to hide the tremble in it, and allows him to gently circle her wrist.

He leans forward to brush dry lips over her third finger before placing the ring where it belongs. They hold their breath until the deed is done, and his fingers stroke hers gently as it slots home.

Then they stare at each other from across the space between them, she with her lip caught between her teeth, he with wide, damp eyes until they move as one.

She tucks her head into his chest at the same time his arms go around her, pulling her close. "Tina, my Tina," Newt breathes while stroking her hair. Tears, long-repressed but cleansing, flow freely from both their eyes. Neither of them notices.

"Don't let me go," she gasps into his skin. He tugs her closer, burying his face in her neck to breath in her scent.

"I won't. I couldn't, even if I tried," he promises. She nods around a sniffle as he hugs her even tighter until they can no longer tell where she ends and he begins.

They stay tangled together until it's time for the evening rounds, and her eyes are bright when he kisses her before bringing her to his case.


	7. Chapter 7

They wed in June, beneath a clear, blue stretch of sky.

Tina insists on a canopy and veil, which Newt is happy to oblige. He requests a white gown for her and blue suit for himself, and she is only too happy to make that happen.

They exchange vows to the music of the crashing waves. Their hands are steady as they push on their new rings before Newt gathers her close for the ceremonial kiss. There, Tina can feel the tremble in his wiry frame, his eyes overflowing when he beams down at her.

She smiles while thumbing away his tears until he ducks his head to kiss her fingers.

"I love you," he whispers. She repeats it back, and they share a second, more chaste embrace as the wind pulls at their hair before parting with matching smiles.

Newt closes the ceremony by stepping on a glass before accepting the felicitations of Jacob, Theseus, and Queenie with all the grace he can muster, blushing to the roots of his hair while frantically trying to divert their attention to his wife.

Tina is _radiant_ in her wedding gown, an understated white sheath draped in lace. Her willowy arms are bare and nearly as fair as the fabric of her dress. She ties herself to him with a natural face and her hair loose, precisely as he loves her. This doesn't stop him from braiding flowers into her hair after the vows are said, and he can't seem to help but reach out and touch _them_ , touch _her_ in ecstatic disbelief as their party enjoys a simple meal.

They eat right there on the pebbles of their beach. Tina sits with her flowers laid beside her as they nibble strawberries soaked in champagne, small, sour pickles, and hard cheeses. There's stout English beer with the main course, and fish n' chips from their preferred vendor, sprinkled generously with vinegar and salt.

Jacob and Queenie supply the cake, and the newlyweds decided to forgo the ceremonial cake-smash in favor of gently feeding each other.

The sun is on its western path when their guests decide to leave. There's no awkwardly lingering goodbyes, no innuendo. Just a sweet parting, an admonishment to enjoy their week off, and smiles all around.

Then they are gone, and Newt and Tina are wonderfully alone.

He moves to stand behind her, wrapping an arm around her waist as their fingers weave together. "Are you happy, darling?" he asks while pushing her hair aside. She shivers when he plants a kiss at the nape of her neck before wrapping his arms around her waist.

"I am," she breathes and smiles as the wind tugs at her hair. "But I'd be happier if you took me home."

She feels his lips curl into a small, secret smile before he Disapparates them away.

* * *

Their bedroom smells like the sea.

Tina strips the stems of her bouquet to sprinkle the petals over their bed as Newt moves behind her. He plucks the flowers from her hair before loosening her gown to pool around her feet. She steps out of it and allows him to remove her undergarments before focusing on his suit. Jacket, waistcoat, bowtie all succumb to her gentle fingers until they stand with nothing between them.

She had been worried about her new scars, but he presses dry lips to each of them in their turn, breathing benedictions into her skin until she gasps and pleads with him. He whispers soothing words while sinking between her thighs, teasing her until she arches and gasps his name.

He's smiling when she comes back down, pressing kisses into her skin while urging her legs around his waist. Tina runs her fingers through his chaotic hair, breathing _I love you, I love you_ , over and over until he slips deliciously inside her.

Once there, they take a moment to _breathe_ , to feel the weight of this new paradigm before moving, as one, in a dance as old as time.

Newt encourages her to a gentle but intense orgasm, his mouth slanted against her ear to breathe adorations before following after. They lay tangled in the aftermath, sweat-slicked skin cooling in the sea breeze as they lay plans for their future, both immediate and distant.

He asks her idly about the names she picked for their future children. She tells him and doesn't miss the way his eyes _brighten_ as she gives each of those nebulous entities a name.

"We could make it happen," he purrs while rocking his hips suggestively. "Get started right away, if you'd like."

She reaches down to touch where he is soft, wrapping him in her fingers to make him _hard_. "We could," she says with a coy smirk, "if you're up for the challenge."

He levels an eyebrow while nuzzling her cheek. "With you? Always."

"Oh, that's good," she whispers as her fingers burrow into his hair. "That's very good."

"I thought you'd like that," Newt murmurs. Then he raises his head, expression suddenly serious. "I love you, Tina. I've always loved you. I never intended for you to doubt it."

She reaches out to touch his cheek, a small smile playing at the corner of her lips. "I never questioned it," she admits, "though I'm not sure what brought this on _now_." Her mouth softens. "I know you do, and I love you too."

She slips lower in the sheets until they are lined up and her breasts are pressed into his chest. He watches her, eyes filled with awe and love and simple wonder, all for her.

"Newt. If you love me, then please _show_ me," she implores against his mouth until he breaks away with a soft whine.

"I do," he breathes. "Oh, Tina, I _do_."

So he does.

* * *

Thanks, as always to Kemara24 for beta-reading, advice, encouragement, and generally being an awesome friend. Thanks also to all my readers, reviewers, followers, and all the other people in this fandom-I couldn't and _wouldn't_ do it without you! Come visit me on Tumblr katiehavok to drop me a prompt, ask me a question, or just hang around for the fun.


End file.
